Portrait of a Lone Wolf
by Drusilla2
Summary: Tristan/Jess. Yes, you've read right. M/M slash in the Gilmore Girls world? [gasp]


TITLE: Portrait of a Lone Wolf  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla -- spikes_pet@canada.com -- http://cityofhellville.com/sweet  
  
RATING: Take your pick. PG-13, or, if you think slash ought to be rated higher than het, R.  
  
PAIRING: Tristan/Jess. [gasp] I was thinking of Dean/Jess, actually, but I changed my mind. [grins]  
  
DISCLAIMERS: Unfortunately neither Jess, Tristan, or Rory are mine. But God I wish they were. [grins evilly] And you can guess what I'd do to them if they were...  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: My first Gilmore Girls fic. I'm taking a huge risk here, bringing "corruption" to the land of goody-two-shoes Trories and Jess-turned-soft Jories. (*God* who came up with those lame tags?)  
  
  
  
  
(( PORTRAIT OF A LONE WOLF ))  
  
  
  
I don't like guys as a rule.  
  
  
But there was something about him, something so distant in his love for her that somehow matched my own. He'd look at me with a smirk, his dark hair falling gently in little curls over his face. His smirk was interesting. He'd always become lost in it as though it were a rippled mirror in which he himself had been distorted.  
  
  
It's eerie how we're exactly the same.   
  
  
One might argue this reasonably, how we're perfect opposites, but that doesn't change anything. We don't fit here, not anywhere, and we can't ever have her in the end. And it's okay. It's okay to pretend that she's all that matters, and that we're only in each other's arms because we can't be in hers, as long as we don't admit that maybe we're more alike than we'd ever dreamed, and maybe we do love.  
  
  
Because when we kiss it's intoxicating. We don't do it often. I laughed afterwards, after the first time, and he shut me up by pressing me to the wall, his hands at my throat. I really thought, then, that he was going to kill me. He has that power. I can sense that he's come close before.   
  
  
But he didn't, of course. His hands were soft. I noticed that first. I noticed his eyes second.   
  
  
He wasn't really who he went around as. His eyes told me he was defeated. I stepped forward when his hand slipped from its hold and pressed my forehead to his. His eyes were scanning mine, unsure, but mine were doing the same.   
  
  
He tasted like wine. Metaphorically, that is. Sweet, seductive. Forbidden. It was too much for me and I pulled him closer until the heat from our bodies gave me a wicked pleasure. His body was hard, and I wasn't accustomed to that. I was used to the slim, soft figures of teenage girls who so often decorated my bed. They meant nothing to me, naturally. I was my father in so many ways, unlike him in all the rest.  
  
  
But he meant something. As did she. And since neither of us could have her, we had each other instead.  
  
  
It was never his place or mine. Too many questions surrounded either of them, too many curious eyes. We brought corruption, they'd have thought, to two perfect places. One small innocent town and one high-class estate. We never mentioned it. We chose the car instead, or some far-away motel that pleased us. We couldn't have cared. We drowned in each other.  
  
  
It occurred to me for the first time after weeks of him that I was losing myself. I was losing my mind, my sanity. More importantly I was losing *her*. And she was my dream.  
  
  
Jess noticed. We sat in my car and he didn't say a word as he smoked, and I watched him carelessly as the smoke flew away in clouds. He was beautiful and it was a painful thought. The moonlight struck him so that his expression was warm. I think I closed my eyes for a moment, and when they were open again he was on me, his weight balanced over my lap and the seat. "Jess--"   
  
  
He cut me off. "Shut up, Tristan."  
  
  
I was sighing at his light touch. Our desire was something of a mystery to both of us, reminiscent of our perfect despair. Yes. It was despair that we both felt when we were caught within each other, despair and longing and need for this, this collision of souls.  
  
  
I remember that I could have wept. Our clothes lay in a disarray, testimony to our passion. He was utterly perfect that it was madness. "Jess," I whispered, and he looked at me very seriously as he had never done before.  
  
  
I love you. I meant to say it, but my mouth wouldn't form the words, couldn't form the words. The idea of it was too thrilling, too treacherous for my simple confession to allow.  
  
  
He understood anyway.  
  
  
The next morning I was awakened by a frantic feminine voice, urging me hopelessly to listen. It was her, I knew. I couldn't escape her it seemed, and I thought lazily as she curled herself onto my lap, suddenly aware, that this was somehow all wrong. I wasn't dreaming-- this couldn't be a dream, because she was sobbing and he was gone.  
  
  
  
  
(( END. ))  
  
  
  
  
Please review? Pretty please? I'll worship you if you do! 


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